Deathwatch: Kill-Team Tael'yn
by Fleetimus28
Summary: Warriors of the Long Watch must overcome their differences and meld together into an elite unit. This proves difficult for some, impossible for others...


Prelude

 _Chosen_

" _The Imperium is bleeding unto death; hounded on all sides, wounded by a thousand cuts!_ _We hold, by the Throne, on the edge of annihilation! Name any system, in any sector, not under attack or facing imminent attack and I will name you a foolish optimist and a liar!"_

 _-_ last words of Inquisitor Arold Mengkasa, executed for heresy 998.M41

Inquisitor Tor stood impassively amid the projected hololith images surrounding him, taking in the horror and violence without any outward reaction. Monstrous figures swarmed him in silence, armored in insect-like carapaces, multi-limbed with blades longer than he was tall. The images blurred, then broke into static as one of the beasts launched itself at one of the servo-skulls broadcasting the images; Tor caught a glimpse of a yawning maw, all fangs and glistening meat. The images flickered, the broadcast interrupted momentarily.

The Inquisitor pursed his lips at this. With a sigh of impatience and a smooth gesture, he willed the playback to accelerate past the annoying interruption.

The scene stabilized, revealing the ruins of what was once a teeming center of industry. The seal of the Adeptus Mechanicus, broken and cracked, adorned every building along with the blackened streaks of gore left from the slain servants of the Machine-God.

Imperial forces were visible now, scattered packs of flak-armored Imperial Guard, perhaps Planetary Defense Forces, standing in futility against the tide of chitinous xenos. The outcome was a forgone conclusion, without the need of any military training whatsoever. Tor watched, his youthful face unreadable, as the aliens slaughtered their way through the pocket resistance of soldiers in mere moments.

As the projection ended at his gestured command, he moved for the first time in over an hour, bringing a gloved hand up to massage his brow.

 _Another world lost to these ravenous beasts,_ he scowled silently.

"Inquisitor," a drone-like voice buzzed over the intercom speakers of his chambers.

"Speak," he answered.

"Mission objectives secured. They call for extraction," the mechanical voice replied.

"Very well Shipmaster," Tor took a breath, retrieving the encoded hololithic recording slates from the projector. "Pull them out," he ordered, breaking the disks in his gloved hand. "and prep the ship for departure. We return to Bastion."

* * *

The wounded gunship strained through the smog-choked atmosphere as it climbed. The interior was lit with combat lighting, a dull red glow washing over the armored figures within and their wounded allies. Of those, two only appeared human, while the other two had discarded their humanity long ago.

One of the humans sat propped against the bulkhead, a pool of blood slowly spreading out around him. The other human knelt to one side, doing her best to stay out of the way of the hulking Astartes tending to the dying man's wounds. The two red-robed priests of the Mechanicus stood idle, mechanized joints purring and multi-lensed optics clicking and whirring as they watched.

All of them bucked and swayed with the gunship's turbulence as it climbed.

Armac cursed as his hand shot out to grip the bulkhead to keep from crushing his charge. The man was nearly bisected at the waist, the wound beyond even his skill to heal.

"You fight the inevitable," a voice chided over the vox, laced with a wet snarl. The apothecary grimaced at the sound, but knew who it belonged to and disregarded the implied emotion behind it. _The Dragon snarls because he always snarls_. "Perhaps," he replied neutrally.

The Dragon grunted at the response. The human, one of Tor's agents, choked up blood as his dying body convulsed. Armac shook his head in frustration.

The female spoke. "He's not going to make it, flesh-weaver." It was not a question.

The apothecary nodded. "I have extracted several vials of bio-venom for analysis. We have test subjects aboard the _Spear_ that shall suffice," he replied coolly, reaching down and snapping the wounded man's neck in one smooth motion before rising from his kneeling position. "Your assistance was appreciated, Agent."

Tabitha Maur watched the armored warrior stand through eyes the color of rain. She leaned her back against the bulkhead, her carapace armor stained with multi-colored splashes of blood and alien ichor. Her gloved hands formed the Aquila over her contoured chest-plate. "For the Emperor," she breathed.

The apothecary nodded.

Around them, the shuddering gradually lessened as the gunship broke into low-orbit. Greasy, dull grey clouds gave way to clear darkness through the view-ports adorning the bulkheads. Armac moved to his restraint harness, pausing to glance at the void beyond. His post-human vision detected the monstrous cloud of xenos bio-ships lumbering just beyond this worlds lone satellite body. Within hours, the bulk of the Tyranid swarm would be unleashed.

He bit back the flood of anger, realizing it was borne of frustration. He looked to his team-brothers, as he often did. They all wore the Silver of the Long Watch, all bore the gifts and curses of their respective home Chapters. Some more than others, admittedly.

The Dragon was a curious case; a competent leader and renown warrior, yet not especially gifted with communing with those in his company. He seemed forever on the edge of wrath, his wet-snarl speech and bearing with those that should be his equals as Astartes forever putting up barriers between brothers.

The Angel was easily the complete opposite. Where the Dragon struggled to contain his wrath, Malchael of the Angels Vermillion vented it freely, yet under the tightest control. Outside of combat, the Angel kept mostly to himself like they all did, yet was easily available in the blade-halls for training.

Galan of the Dark Knights said almost nothing at all, even in the heat of battle. He busied himself dealing death to the enemies of mankind with all manner of heavy weaponry, and when there were no xenos to slay, he busied himself maintaining said weaponry. The Apothecary watched him now, already running a cloth through the mechanics of his carbon-dusted heavy bolter.

"Your staring," the Dark Knight grunted, never ceasing his ministrations.

"Admiring your handiwork, cousin," the Apothecary shrugged, moving his attentions elsewhere. Such was the life of a Deathwatch battle-brother, surrounded by those elevated above humanity by the Emperor's Gift, yet bereft of true kinship.

* * *

The command deck of the ancient warship was immense. The cavernous space was a cathedral of war, filled with the tang of incense and smoke from the dozens of low hanging braziers. Icons of the Chapter adorned every wall: chains, skulls, the sacred heraldry of our founder and the zealous spirit of his legacy.

The command dais was at the heart of the central arched chamber, surrounded by work stations for the hundreds of menials and serfs in service to the ancient ships commander. He stood at the center of it all, surrounded by his closest brethren, overseeing the mobilization of his forces at the conclusion of yet another successful crusade.

One of his brothers looks up at my approach: a solitary figure in battered war-plate, fresh from the hangar deck. I had been issued this summons as my brothers and I traveled up from the surface, the stink of Green-skin blood and promethium exhaust thick in my nostrils. He nods to me in greeting, his scarred face unreadable, set in a hard mask as he approaches. "Well met, brother. You fought well," his face opens briefly as we grip wrist-to-wrist in the warrior's way.

"You honor me, Champion Gustav," I reply, pulling my gore streaked helm clear with a hiss of escaping air. My face is awash with multi-colored bruises and minor cuts that sting in the acrid air of the bridge.

"Vayne," another voice called as Gustav started to say something. We both looked to it's source, the towering warrior at the heart of it all. "Come forth," Marshal Ardath commanded.

I nod to Gustav, clasping my helm to my belt. My hand rests on the pommel of my blade, chains rattling against the scabbard at my hip. I approach the dais, and take a knee before my commander and liege lord.

I can feel the eyes of my brothers watching my every move, and cannot help but hope that I might finally have been called into the revered Sword Brethren of my lord. The confession stirs my hearts, and the fatigue of battle is forgotten in an instant. I try to conceal my excitement as best as I can, although I know my brothers must surely hear my pounding hearts. I wait in silence for several long seconds, my eyes never leaving Ardath's.

"Duty," the Marshal almost _sighs_ the word. "It is this, above all, that drives the heart of the Knights of Dorn. Glory and honor have their place," the Marshal nodded at the words for emphasis, "but it is duty that sustains us," he paused, seating himself.

"I live to serve, my liege," I bow my head.

Ardath nods. "You are a rising star, Vayne, one my brothers and I have noticed more and more of late. Your actions during this crusade were exemplary, worthy of recognition. I have no doubt, based on my own observation as well as the word of my sworn brothers, of your capabilities and faith in our sacred mission."

My grip tightens around the pommel of my sword. Pride and elation flooded my soul, leaving my muscles trembling with renewed strength. _At last, I am to join the Marshal's house as one of his sworn brothers!_

"Therefore, I hereby authorize your secondment into the Long Watch of the Inquisition, to represent our Chapter and uphold our oaths to which it is bound by ancient decree."

Time stops. My eyes search his, my brow knitting. I see him lean forward, his gauntlets closing into fists. My hearts are hammering now, elation turning to cold ice in my veins. _No,_ I plead. _This cannot be._

"This is a great honor, brother," he adds after several heartbeats.

I cannot speak. I glance to Gustav, standing impassively at our liege's side. He nods slightly, but remains silent. _I am alone in this. Refuse, and I forfeit all honor. Accept, and I am exiled from the Chapter to die in service to the accursed Inquisition_.

"Time is not our ally, brother. What say you," Ardath asks.

I take a breath, trying to smother my wrath unsuccessfully. "I accept," I stand, turning my back and marching from the dais without another word.

* * *

One  
 _Beginnings_

 __  
 _Seven weeks_.  
The sword in my hands is a blur of blued steel, the blood in my ears a drum-beat to the mechanized grind of his movements. I train in the privacy of my cell, four unadorned walls of cold steel in the bowels of a ship I hate.  
 _Seven weeks_.  
There were no training servitors aboard, nor others of my kind. I had waited in silence for over two weeks before finally asking. Inactivity was anathema to me, and so I had busied myself caring for my arms and armor.  
That lasted for a day, maybe two.  
Then I went exploring. The ship was a _Claymore_ -class Corvette, easily the smallest warp-capable ship I had ever stepped foot on. I trod it's decks in full battle-plate, alarming the mortal crew whenever I stomped by. A few brave ones would try greeting me, only to be ignored like the rest. Every few days I would venture to the bridge, demanding an arrival estimate only to be given the same meaningless answers.  
I felt like a caged beast, locked up with my wrath with no way to vent it.  
 _Damn them for subjecting me to this ignobility_.  
So I trained. And fasted. And prayed. So on and so on.  
For seven weeks.  
When the lurch of real-space re-entry jarred my concentration, I sheathed my sword with a flourish and strode from the cell without hesitation. It was time to get off this accursed ship.

Bastion Station was perfectly named, for it was an armored bastion hanging in the void. Nestled in a remote Lagrange point far from the weak light of a brown dwarf, the dark iron of the void-fortress revealed little other than gothic architecture concealing innumerable weapon ports. I had seen many Imperial strongholds in a century and a half of service to the Throne, yet none truly matched what I saw before me.  
Towering buttresses angled into the darkness above a ring of docking piers, inactive vessels latched onto the superstructure like ticks. Repair dollies swarmed over them, fuelers and munitions loaders as well. I saw several frigates and a cruiser docked there, suckling at the keep's stores of materials.  
"S-ser Knight?" the shipmaster's screeching voice jarred my attention.  
"Speak," I growled, irritated at the interruption. The portly fellow actually flinched, as if struck. _Useless_ , my lip curled in disgust. No one saw it under my helm, however.  
"Ah. The, ah, station is awaiting your arrival. Transport is standing by in the, ah, hangar deck," the shipmaster fumbled, wiping his brow with a kerchief.  
The warrior grunted, leaving the bridge without another word.

I am greeted at the umbilical by a lone warrior clad in black mk. VI plate. He wears no helm, the sparce lighting revealing a hard, lined face of middling age. Dark stubble adorns his crown, matching his deep set eyes. Criss-crossing scars decorate his face. His battle-plate is adorned with various items set in the iconography of the Inquisition, honors of deeds performed in battle. At his hips, twin chain-axes hang idly. I feel my lip curl at the sight of them.  
 _A champion of some kind, no doubt_.  
I stop well out of striking distance. "Hail."  
The warrior blinks, his eyes move over me in wordless judgment. I smile at the gesture beneath my helm.  
"I am Falstad, of the Watchers. You will follow me," the warrior replies without ceremony. He is already moving before I can say anything else.  
We walk in silence through the cold corridors of the station, our armored boots echoing off the unadorned walls. No one witnesses our passing; no thralls, or serfs, or even servitors. For an hour or more we walk, the massive station seemingly abandoned.  
We pass bare chambers, holding cells, dusty halls of training. We march through the forge levels, eerily silent, the industrial equipment motionless and cobwebbed from disuse. We pass dining facilities, rows of empty tables and steel chairs vacant and untouched. Questions mount in my mind, and with them my anger builds. I did not know what to expect, but this labyrinthian castle in the void certainly was not it. It looked large enough to house several crusades worth of men and material, and yet it appeared completely deserted.  
 _Dorn's blood_ , I swear, _I had better get some answers soon_.  
We wait before a large lift, it's doors opening on hissing hydraulics marked by the stylized "I" of the Inquisition. The same icon dominates Falstad's right shoulder guard in shining silver.  
We enter the lift. As he turns, I catch the image of a bloody tear-drop icon, set in the center of a saw-toothed disk. _Flesh-Tearer?_  
"You will surrender your weapons before entry into the Vigil, and remove your helm in the presence of the Watch-Captain."  
I snort at the very idea. The Watcher's eyes hold my own for a few more heartbeats, before the mask of his face breaks into a menacing grin. "So be it."  
The lift halted, the doors grinding open to reveal a large circular atrium beyond lit with braziers along the walls. Six doors led into the chamber, all sealed. Falstad moved to the center, rolling his shoulders. He turned, spreading his arms. "This," he gestured to the empty chamber, "is the Hall of Memory."  
On closer inspection, I saw names etched into the walls. _Hundreds of names. Thousands_.  
"Dedicated to Brothers lost in service during the Long Watch," I could hear the sneer in the Flesh-Tearer's voice. "Now," he rested a armored hand on the handle of one of his chain-axes. "Surrender your weapons, or I shall add your name among them."  
I step into the chamber, cocking my head at this arrogant cur.  
"I never gave you my name," I smile, drawing my blade in one sharp pull.  
Before I could blink, the Flesh-Tearer pulled both axes and charged. I had never seen such speed, such instant aggression. The axes sliced down in blurred murder-strokes that I barely managed to block. Sparks flew from the impact, jarring my grip. I spin to the side, my sword slicing through air laterally. Falstad had moved, a visious kick hammering into my chest. I gave ground, blocking and dodging a flurry of deathly-quick blows.  
He weaved aside from every reposit, blocked every counter. I was a novice, fighting back a tornado of monomolecular saw-toothed axes. When the end came, I realized that he had been toying with me the entire time. My blade fell, knocked from my grip by a downward stroke, my arm numb from the impact. A fist cannoned into my helm instantly, shattering my right eye lens and sending me reeling.  
I was on my knees, an inactive chain-axe resting on the nape of my neck ready to chew through the soft fibre-bundles of my power armor and end my life.  
"I expected more, son of Dorn," the Watcher sneered.  
I felt rage then, my hands clenching into fists as white hot wrath set fire to my veins.  
"Enough," a voice boomed. The chain-axe lifted, after a few heartbeats.  
I stood, pulling my damaged helm free with a grunt of effort. My sword was embedded in the mosaic tiles of the chamber, several paces away. Another Astartes stood before it, seizing the grip and pulling it free without effort. He held the blade up to his eyes, inspecting it. "A fine blade, cousin."  
I spit a mouthful of blood, glaring at the Flesh-Tearer. "Watch-Captain, I assume?"  
The newcomer lunged, the tip of my own blade at my throat. "You stand on hallowed ground, Templar. A modicum of respect for the honored dead, if you please," the warrior gestured to the splattering of blood upon the tiles.  
Rage threatens to override my sense of self-preservation.  
The Flesh-Tearer chuckles, seeing my hesitation. "A wrathful bastard, this one."  
"Silence," the newcomer commanded, withdrawing the blade. "I am Watch-Captain Berritus Thrace, of the Sons of Orpheus Chapter," he held the blade's pommel out to me.  
"Daimon Vayne, Black Templars," I answer, gripping my sword and returning it to the scabbard at my hip.  
"Welcome to the Deathwatch," the Flesh-Tearer chuckled.

To be continued...


End file.
